A task forgotten, a new life found
by expectopatronuts
Summary: Befriend Tom Riddle and kill him before he makes the first horcrux. That was the task. Or at least it had been, an age ago. But now Hermione has a new life, and in it there's no room for some distant past remembered in flashes. [Dark!Hermione; Time-Turner fic (sort of)]


**AN:** written for the QLFC, Season 5

 _Round 1_ : Not My OTP

 _Team:_ Pride of Portree

 _Position:_ Beater 1

 _NOTP_ written for Beater 2: Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger

 _Word Count_ : 1,454 excluding Author's Note

 _Prompts_ (bolded) _:_ 2\. (word) yesterday; 7. (object) broken wine glass; 14. (quote) The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it's the small things that count. - Theodore Finch, All the Bright Places

* * *

In the daylight, Hermione stands tall, cold but unfeeling in the pale fog of the winter morning.

Her wand hangs at her side, held loosely in her left hand; a single drop of blood sliding down the polished wood and falling to the white marble.

A soft gasp, almost a sob, comes from the old man at her feet.

"Really, Albus," she says in a chiding tone, as if reprimanding a child, "it was barely a scratch. Nothing to cry about, now, is it?"

There's no answer. Hermione can see his chapped lips moving, trying to speak, but the pain is settled too deep, it lies in the back of his throat like a heavy fog and it makes a ragged, rasping sound every time he takes a breath.

"See, love?" Hermione says, her eyes still lingering on the prone figure. The beard no longer shines silver, now matted with red. "Raw pain just doesn't work on some people. It's a matter of patience."

Behind her, Tom sighs. "I suppose it is, yes," he says, and at the same time he lays a hand, white as a dove, on Hermione's shoulder. "But you know me, I've always favoured the _Cruciatus_."

Hermione turns and he offers her a half-smile. His hand feels cold when her fingers curl around it.

"Almost to a fault," she says, giving him a little smile of her own. She draws his hand up to her lips and kisses his fingers in an impromptu gesture of affection. "Severus could teach you a trick or two."

A silent laugh. "He's invented some nifty spells, I grant you, but nothing you—we—couldn't do," says Tom. He caresses her cheek for a second and Hermione's heart flutters in her chest. "But—" Tom seems to be pondering something, his eyes shining. "But I suppose he could do the honours and start on the boy. After all, he delivered him to us."  
 **  
**

·●●●●●·

It wasn't supposed to go like this.

In fact, it was supposed to go the opposite way.

 _Befriend Tom Riddle and kill him before he makes the first horcrux_.

That was the task. Or at least it had been, an age ago.

But the task had been forgotten, and Albus Dumbledore proven right—love really _was_ a powerful thing.

·●●●●●·

"You wanted to see me, my Lord?" Severus bows low, his brow slightly furrowed but his face otherwise impassive.

"Yes, I did."

Tom has a way of smiling faintly as he speaks that, Hermione knows, never fails to get on Severus' nerves. Even now that he has the Dark Lord's favour so wholly and completely, it makes him search for a hidden jeer in every word, however polite.

"How is the boy?" asks Tom.

"Terrified," answers Severus, his eyes respectfully glued to the floor. "Though trying to hide it."

"I can imagine," says Tom, and the smile widens.

"Stereotypical Gryffindor, my Lord," answers Severus, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a smile of his own.

·●●●●●·

It wasn't supposed to go like this _at all_.

Hermione remembers only bits and pieces of her old life. Sometimes it seems like only **yesterday** , and she remembers the most random details—the exact colour of the upholstery in the Gryffindor common room, or Seamus Finnigan's accent when pronouncing Latin. Other times, it seems like an age away, and she can't remember her mother's maiden name.

Funny, what time travel does to one's mind.

There are things that come to her more often than others: Tom's cold, red eyes in a time when his name had been forgotten; Severus' tight scowl, hiding defeat; Bellatrix's insane laugh.

But all those things, she had changed. Because she could, and her life was now, here, and not in some distant past remembered in flashes.

It was surprising how little it had taken. Hints carefully hidden in academic conversations and a couple of well-chosen passages of Plato to ease Tom's fear of death; a string of meaningless, soothing babble and the promise of Pettigrew's life (he had outlived his usefulness, after all) as Severus cried for a lost friend; a softly spoken word—"enough"—when the Longbottoms could no longer wipe the drool off their chins but the curse had not yet driven mad the caster as well as the victims.

 **The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it's the small things that count** , but those little gestures had been enough for everything to change.

·●●●●●·

A thin, absentminded melody, hummed softly, comes from somewhere inside the house. Avery has had the _Dance of the Knights_ stuck in his head for a whole week now.

Then the sound of glass shattering and a loud exclamation interrupt the line of the music, and Severus' wand comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of a spell pattern.

"Cissy's going to kill him if he **broke one of her new wine glasses** ," he comments, scratching his nose in a distracted gesture. "Lucius brought them _all the way from Alexandria_ ," he says, mimicking Narcissa's cultivated lilt almost to perfection.

Hermione exchanges a look with Tom and they both smile.

In a way, it's like having children. People think of the Death Eaters as some threatening, anonymous entity and forget that they're people who laugh and fight and joke and live. But Hermione has always known when to listen and when to observe, and she has always been good at noticing what others overlook. She knows that Avery plays the piano well but has trouble with pieces that require speed, she knows that McNair has a way with animals that's almost a magic of its own, she knows that Severus beats anyone at the riddle game, and that Bellatrix has a strange interest in medieval church bells, of all things.

And so, she has managed to build a solid, long-lasting harmony among their little group, and her place at the Dark Lord's side has never been disputed.

It's strange to think that in another age she knew these little things, these unimportant odds and ends, about the dark-haired boy who grew up to be quick, and proud, and full of temper, and who now lies on the floor, curled up like a ball, helpless and small.

"Go on, Severus," Hermione says quietly.

He pushes a strand of hair behind his ear and turns back to the task at hand. The tip of his wand traces the pattern in the air and the boy curls tighter around himself even though his heartbeat is racing for a fight and his eyes dart around the room as if there were Golden Snitches everywhere for him to catch.

·●●●●●·

Strange, really, to think there was a time when everything was backwards and she hated Tom and loved the boy that is now a corpse, the tears still tracing wet paths on his cheeks through blood and grime.

Strange to think that in another world Severus died for him; Severus, who wipes his wand on the boy's filthy shirt even as the last scream scratches at his throat like a rusty blade, and watches dispassionately as a thin layer of frost begins to cover the round glasses now that his body no longer gives off heat.

Hermione turns to the old man, who watches them with feverish eyes. Once, Albus Dumbledore was the greatest wizard of the age. Now, he doesn't even have strength left to mourn the boy with the scar, or to regret that he died at the wrong time.

"Should I kill him, my Lady?" Severus asks.

"No." Hermione raises her wand. "That task isn't meant for you."

Strange to think that, in another world, it had been.

·●●●●●·

Tom comes out through the front door after stopping Narcissa from murdering Avery, at least for the time being. His step is light, and why shouldn't it be? After all, it's a beautiful morning.

"So, what have I missed?" he asks. His eyes come to trace the pattern of red stains on the boy's white skin, the angry welt crossing the old man's face, taking in the fact that neither of them is breathing. But there's no anger in his eyes, only a slow, lazy satisfaction. "You two really have to learn control yourselves," he says, and the last syllable melts as he presses his lips to Hermione's.

·●●●●●·

Maybe it _was_ supposed to go like this.

The time-turner is now lost, deep in some drawer or in a shelf so high it can't be reached, and the task has been forgotten.

Hermione hardly thinks back to that other world anymore, and when she does, the memories have the quality of a dream that has already begun to fade.

 **-fin-**


End file.
